Southanger Abbey
by ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Seventeen year old Sherlock Holmes is invited by Mrs. Hudson to accompany her to Bath, where he meets the dashing Captain John Watson. Soon his life begins to resemble one of the gothic novels of which he is so fond, as he becomes enmeshed in the schemes of Irene and James Moriarty, and finds himself embroiled in the mysteries surrounding Southanger Abbey.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story is a collaboration between ChrisCalledMeSweetie and the ghost of Jane Austen, with the latter contributing most of the work.

...

No one who had ever seen Sherlock Holmes in his infancy would have supposed him born to be a hero. His situation in life, the character of his father and mother, his own person and disposition, were all equally against him.

His father was a very respectable man, though not particularly gifted, and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his sons. His mother was a woman of uncommon mathematical genius, with a good temper, and, what is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had one son before Sherlock was born; and instead of dying in bringing the latter into the world, as anybody might expect, she still lived on to see both boys grow up, and to enjoy excellent health herself.

Sherlock, for many years of his life, had an unfortunate look: a thin, awkward figure, pale skin, dark, unruly hair, and sharp cheekbones. So much for his person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed his mind. He showed a disturbing interest in the gruesome, the mysterious, and the bizarre. Such were his propensities; his abilities were quite as extraordinary. Instead of excelling at cricket or shooting, Sherlock preferred to spend his time reading, or playing the violin.

What a strange, unaccountable character! Yet with all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, he had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, though he was noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as conducting experiments. Such was Sherlock Holmes at ten.

At fifteen, appearances were mending: his hair began to curl becomingly, his complexion improved, he grew into his strong features, his eyes gained more animation, and his figure more consequence. His love of dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and he grew clean as he grew smart; he had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing his father and mother remark on his personal improvement.

"Sherlock grows quite a good-looking lad — he is almost handsome today," were words which caught his ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To look almost handsome is an acquisition of higher delight to a boy who has been looking rather odd the first fifteen years of his life than a beauty from his cradle can ever receive.

From fifteen to seventeen, Sherlock was in training for a hero. He read all such works as heroes must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives. So far, his improvement was sufficient, and in many other points he came on exceedingly well.

His greatest deficiency was in the pencil. He had no notion of drawing — not enough even to attempt a sketch of his lover's profile, that he might be detected in the design. There he fell miserably short of the true heroic height.

At present, Sherlock did not know his own poverty, for he had no lover to portray. He had reached the age of seventeen without having seen one amiable youth who could call forth his sensibility, without having inspired one real passion, and without having excited even any admiration but what was very moderate and very transient.

This was strange indeed! But strange things may be generally accounted for if their cause be fairly searched out. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no — not even a baronet. There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared and supported a child accidentally found at their door — not one young person whose origin was unknown. Sherlock's father had no ward, and the squire of the parish no children.

But when a young man is to be a hero, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent him. Something must and will happen to throw a love interest in his way.

Mrs. Hudson, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the Holmes family lived, was ordered to Bath for the benefit of her hip. This lady, a good-humoured woman, fond of Sherlock, and probably aware that if adventures will not befall a young man in his own village, he must seek them abroad, invited him to go with her. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were all compliance, and Sherlock all happiness.

...

 **End Note:** Kind reviews, Gentle Reader, are a balm upon my spirit.


	2. Chapter 2

In addition to what has been already said of Sherlock Holmes' personal and mental endowments, when about to be launched into all the difficulties and dangers of a six weeks' residence in Bath, it may be stated, for the reader's more certain information, lest the following pages should otherwise fail of giving any idea of what his character is meant to be, that, although he was a genius, he had led such a sheltered life — almost wholly removed from society — that he had very little practical experience on which to base his notions, and so he was rather given to flights of fancy. Moreover, while in ten years time Sherlock might become a master of brilliant deductions, he was, at seventeen, as naive and innocent as one could imagine a young man of that age to be.

When the hour of departure drew near, the maternal anxiety of Mrs. Holmes will be naturally supposed to be most severe. A thousand alarming presentiments of evil to her beloved Sherlock from this terrific separation must oppress her heart with sadness, and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their being together; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must of course flow from her wise lips in their parting conference. Cautions against the violence of such noblemen and baronets as delight in forcing young men away to some remote farm-house, must, at such a moment, relieve the fulness of her heart. Who would not think so?

But Mrs. Holmes knew so little of lords and baronets, that she entertained no notion of their general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her son from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to the following points. "I beg, Sherlock, you will always wrap yourself up very warm about the throat, when you come from the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep some account of the money you spend; I will give you this little book on purpose."

Everything indeed relative to this important journey was done, on the part of the Holmes family, with a degree of moderation and composure, which seemed more consistent with the common feelings of common life, than with the refined susceptibilities, the tender emotions which the first separation of a hero from his family ought always to excite. Sherlock's father, instead of giving him an unlimited order on his banker, or even putting an hundred pounds bank-bill into his hands, gave him only ten guineas, and promised him more when he wanted it.

Under these unpromising auspices, the parting took place, and the journey began. It was performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. Neither robbers nor tempests befriended them, nor one lucky overturn to introduce them to the anticipated love interest. Nothing more alarming occurred than a fear, on Mrs. Hudson's side, of having once left her clogs behind her at an inn, and that, fortunately, proved to be groundless.

They arrived at Bath. Sherlock was all eager delight — his eyes were here, there, everywhere, as they approached its fine and striking environs, and afterwards drove through those streets which conducted them to the hotel. He was come to be happy, and he felt happy already.

It is now expedient to give some description of Mrs. Hudson, that the reader may be able to judge in what manner her actions will hereafter tend to promote the general distress of the work, and how she will, probably, contribute to reduce poor Sherlock to all manner of desperate wretchedness — whether by her imprudence, vulgarity, or jealousy — whether by intercepting his letters, ruining his character, or turning him out of doors.

Mrs. Hudson was one of that rare class of females who blossom under the effects of widowhood. Indeed, her delight at the passing of her late husband stretched the bounds of propriety to a shocking degree. In one respect, though, she was admirably fitted to introduce a young man into public, being as fond of going everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young person could be.

Dress was her passion. She had a most harmless delight in being fine; and our hero's entree into life could not take place till after three or four days had been spent in learning what was mostly worn, and his chaperone was provided with a dress of the newest fashion.

Sherlock made some purchases himself, and when all these matters were arranged, the important evening came which was to usher him into the Upper Rooms. His hair was cut and dressed by the best hand, his clothes put on with care, and both Mrs. Hudson and her maid declared he looked quite as he should do. With such encouragement, Sherlock hoped at least to pass uncensured through the crowd. As for admiration, it was always very welcome when it came, but he did not depend on it.

Mrs. Hudson was so long in dressing that they did not enter the ballroom till late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two squeezed in as well as they could. With more care for the safety of her new gown than for the comfort of her protege, Mrs. Hudson made her way through the throng of men by the door, as swiftly as the necessary caution would allow; Sherlock, however, kept close at her side, and linked his arm too firmly within his friend's to be torn asunder by any common effort of a struggling assembly.

But to his utter amazement Sherlock found that to proceed along the room was by no means the way to disengage themselves from the crowd; it seemed rather to increase as they went on, whereas he had imagined that when once fairly within the door, they should easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with perfect convenience. But this was far from being the case, and though by unwearied diligence they gained even the top of the room, their situation was just the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some of the ladies.

Still they moved on — something better was yet in view; and by a continued exertion of strength and ingenuity they found themselves at last in the passage behind the highest bench. Here there was something less of crowd than below; and hence Sherlock had a comprehensive view of all the company beneath him, and of all the dangers of his late passage through them. It was a splendid sight, and he began, for the first time that evening, to feel himself at a ball. He longed to dance, but he had not an acquaintance in the room.

Mrs. Hudson did all that she could do in such a case by saying very placidly, every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear — I wish you could get a partner."

For some time her young friend felt obliged to her for these wishes; but they were repeated so often, and proved so totally ineffectual, that Sherlock grew tired at last, and would thank her no more.

They were not long able, however, to enjoy the repose of the eminence they had so laboriously gained. Everybody was shortly in motion for tea, and they must squeeze out like the rest. Sherlock began to feel something of disappointment — he was tired of being continually pressed against by people, the generality of whose faces possessed nothing to interest, and with all of whom he was so wholly unacquainted that he could not relieve the irksomeness of imprisonment by the exchange of a syllable with any of his fellow captives; and when at last arrived in the tea-room, he felt yet more the awkwardness of having no party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no friend to assist them.

After looking about them in vain for a more eligible situation, they were obliged to sit down at the end of a table, at which a large party were already placed, without having anything to do there, or anybody to speak to, except each other.

Mrs. Hudson congratulated herself, as soon as they were seated, on having preserved her gown from injury. "It would have been very shocking to have it torn," said she, "would not it? It is such a delicate muslin. For my part I have not seen anything I like so well in the whole room, I assure you."

"How uncomfortable it is," whispered Sherlock, "not to have a single acquaintance here!"

"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. Hudson, with perfect serenity, "it is very uncomfortable indeed."

"What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here — we seem forcing ourselves into their party."

"Aye, so we do. That is very disagreeable. I wish we had a large acquaintance here."

"I wish we had any — it would be somebody to go to."

"Very true, my dear; and if we knew anybody we would join them directly."

"Dear Mrs. Hudson, are you sure there is nobody you know in all this multitude of people? I think you must know somebody."

"I don't, upon my word — I wish I did. I wish I had a large acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I should be so glad to have you dance."

After some time they received an offer of tea from one of their neighbours; it was thankfully accepted, and this introduced a light conversation with the gentleman who offered it, which was the only time that anybody spoke to them during the evening, till the dance was over.

"Well, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, "I hope you have had an agreeable ball."

"Very agreeable indeed," he replied, vainly endeavouring to hide a great yawn.

"I wish you had been able to dance; I wish we could have got a partner for you. But we shall do better another evening I hope," was Mrs. Hudson's consolation.

The company began to disperse when the dancing was over — enough to leave space for the remainder to walk about in some comfort; and now was the time for a hero, who had not yet played a very distinguished part in the events of the evening, to be noticed and admired. Every five minutes, by removing some of the crowd, gave greater openings for Sherlock's charms. He was now seen by many young people who had not been near him before. Not one, however, started with rapturous wonder on beholding him, no whisper of eager inquiry ran round the room, nor was he once called a divinity by anybody. Yet Sherlock was in very good looks, and had the company only seen him three years before, they would now have thought him exceedingly handsome.

He was looked at, however, and with some admiration; for, in his own hearing, two gentlemen pronounced him to be not bad-looking. Such words had their due effect; he immediately thought the evening pleasanter than he had found it before. His humble vanity was contented — he felt more obliged to the two young men for this simple praise than a true-quality hero would have been for fifteen sonnets in celebration of his charms, and went away in good humour with everybody, and perfectly satisfied with his share of public attention.

...

 **End Note:** Now that we have made the acquaintance of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, and seen them safely delivered to Bath, the next chapter shall, at long last, usher in the promised love interest for our hero.


	3. Chapter 3

Every morning now brought its regular duties — shops were to be visited; some new part of the town to be looked at; and the pump-room to be attended, where they paraded up and down for an hour, looking at everybody and speaking to no one. The wish of a numerous acquaintance in Bath was still uppermost with Mrs. Hudson, and she repeated it after every fresh proof, which each morning brought, of her knowing nobody at all.

They made their appearance in the Lower Rooms; and here fortune was more favourable to our hero. The master of the ceremonies introduced to him a very gentlemanlike young man as a partner: a captain by the name of Watson, in dazzling regimental scarlet. He seemed to be about four or five and twenty, was rather short, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, and Sherlock felt himself in high luck.

There was little leisure for speaking while they danced; but when they were seated at tea, Sherlock found his partner as agreeable as he had already given him credit for being. Captain Watson talked with fluency and spirit — and there was an archness and pleasantry in his manner which interested and intrigued.

After chatting some time on such matters as naturally arose from the objects around them, Captain Watson suddenly addressed Sherlock with "I have hitherto been very remiss in the proper attentions of a partner here; I have not yet asked you how long you have been in Bath; whether you were ever here before; whether you have been at the Upper Rooms, the theatre, and the concert; how you like the place in general, and your experience with balls in particular. I have been very negligent — but are you now at leisure to satisfy me in these details? If you are I will begin directly."

"You need not give yourself that trouble, sir."

"No trouble, I assure you." Then forming his features into a set smile, and affectedly softening his voice, he added, with a simpering air, "Have you been long in Bath?"

"About a week, sir," replied Sherlock, trying not to laugh.

"Really!" with affected astonishment.

"Why should you be surprised, sir?"

"Why, indeed!" said he, in his natural tone. "But some emotion must appear to be raised by your reply, and surprise is more easily assumed, and not less reasonable than any other. Now let us go on. Were you never here before?"

"Never, sir."

"Indeed! Have you yet honoured the Upper Rooms?"

"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."

"Have you been to the theatre?"

"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday."

"To the concert?"

"Yes, sir, on Wednesday."

"Are you altogether pleased with Bath?"

"Yes — I like it very well."

"And have you danced with many charming young ladies?"

"No, sir. Young ladies are not really my area."

"Ah. Charming young gentlemen, then — have you danced with many of those?"

"Only one, sir."

"Is that so? Now I must give a self-satisfied smirk, and then we may be rational again."

Sherlock turned away his head, not knowing whether he might venture to laugh.

"I see what you think of me," said Captain Watson gravely. "I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow."

"My journal?"

"Yes, I know exactly what you will say: Friday, went to the Lower Rooms, was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense."

"Indeed I shall say no such thing."

"Shall I tell you what you ought to say?"

"If you please."

"I danced with a very agreeable young man; had a great deal of conversation with him — seems a most extraordinary gentleman — hope I may know more of him."

They were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson: "My dear Sherlock," said she, "do take this pin out of my sleeve; I am afraid it has torn a hole already; I shall be quite sorry if it has, for this is a favourite gown, though it cost but nine shillings a yard."

"That is exactly what I should have guessed it, madam," said Captain Watson, looking at the muslin.

"Do you understand muslins, sir?"

"Particularly well; I always buy my own cravats, and am allowed to be an excellent judge; and my sister has often trusted me in the choice of a gown."

Mrs. Hudson was quite struck by his genius. "Men commonly take so little notice of those things," said she. "You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir."

"I hope I am, madam."

"Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go — eight miles is a long way — I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes."

Captain Watson was polite enough to seem interested in what she said, and kept conversing with Mrs. Hudson till the dancing recommenced. Sherlock hardly listened to their discourse, though, so caught up was he in gazing at his new acquaintance, who seemed to him to be a most extraordinary gentleman, indeed.

"What are you thinking of so earnestly?" asked Captain Watson, as they walked back to the ballroom.

Sherlock coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of anything."

"That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me."

"Well then, I will not."

"Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorised to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much."

They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on Sherlock's side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance. Whether he thought of Captain Watson so much, while he drank his warm wine and water, and prepared himself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young hero can be justified in falling in love before the other's love is declared, it must be very improper that a young hero should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of him.

How proper Captain Watson might be as a dreamer — or a lover — had not yet perhaps entered Mrs. Hudson's head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for her young charge she was on inquiry satisfied; for she had early in the evening taken pains to know who Sherlock's partner was, and had been assured of Captain Watson's being of a very respectable family; and, of perhaps equal recommendation in her mind, she had immediately ascertained for herself that he was a handsome young man, and looked exceedingly fine in his regimentals.

...

 **End Note:** Thus far, we have made the acquaintance of Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Captain John Watson. Which character is your favorite? And who do you think will make an appearance in chapter 4? Tune in next Sunday to find out. :)


	4. Chapter 4

With more than usual eagerness did Sherlock hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within himself of seeing Captain Watson there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded, for Captain Watson did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent.

"What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Hudson as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here."

This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Hudson had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Hudson?"

This question being answered, as it readily was, in the affirmative, the stranger pronounced her own name to be Moriarty; and Mrs. Hudson immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might be, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said.

Mrs. Moriarty, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Hudson, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her son, and the beauty of her daughter, when she related their different situations and views — that James was at Oxford and Irene here in Bath, and both of them more beloved and respected by the world than any other two beings ever were — Mrs. Hudson had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Moriarty's pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.

"Here comes my dear girl," cried Mrs. Moriarty, pointing at a smart-looking female who was then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Hudson, I long to introduce her; she will be so delighted to see you. Is not she a fine young woman?"

Miss Irene Moriarty was introduced; and Sherlock, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike Irene; and, after speaking to him with great civility, she observed aloud to her mother, "How unlike his brother Mr. Holmes is!"

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Moriarty. "I did not make the connection!"

For a moment Sherlock was surprised; but Mrs. Moriarty and her daughter had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. Mycroft Holmes, before he remembered that his elder brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man at Oxford by the name of James Moriarty; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by Miss Moriarty of her wish of being better acquainted with him; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Sherlock heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions he could command; and, as the first proof of amity, he was soon invited to accept an arm of Miss Moriarty, and take a turn with her about the room.

Sherlock was delighted with this extension of his Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Captain Watson while he talked to Miss Moriarty. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love; and Sherlock, who had never before had a friend so nearly his own age — or, truth be told, any friend at all, save Mrs. Hudson — was all eagerness.

Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young people: such as dress, balls, and flirtations. Miss Moriarty, however, being four years older than Sherlock, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; and could discover a flirtation between any two people who only smiled on each other. These powers received due admiration from Sherlock, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Moriarty's manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with him, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection, and an earnest desire of cultivating such abilities in himself.

Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss Moriarty should accompany Sherlock to the very door of Mrs. Hudson's house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Sherlock then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Moriarty's progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well he might, for the chance which had procured him such a friend.

...

 **End Note:** Dun dun duh! *ominous music* Will Sherlock's friendship with Irene continue to delight him? Or will the connection with the Moriarty family lead our innocent hero astray? Tune in next Sunday, when this tale will continue.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Moriarty, though they certainly claimed much of his leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Captain Watson in every box which his eye could reach; but he looked in vain. Captain Watson was no fonder of the play than the pump-room. Sherlock hoped to be more fortunate the next day; and when his wishes for fine weather were answered by seeing a beautiful morning, he hardly felt a doubt of it; for a fine Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants, and all the world appears on such an occasion to walk about and tell their acquaintance what a charming day it is.

As soon as divine service was over, Mrs. Hudson and her charge eagerly joined the Moriartys; and after staying long enough in the pump-room to discover that the crowd was insupportable, and that there was not a genteel face to be seen, which everybody discovers every Sunday throughout the season, they hastened away to the Crescent, to breathe the fresh air of better company. Here Sherlock and Irene, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation; they talked much, and with much enjoyment; but again was Sherlock disappointed in his hope of re-seeing his partner.

Captain Watson was nowhere to be met with; every search for him was equally unsuccessful, in morning lounges or evening assemblies; neither at the Upper nor Lower Rooms, at dressed or undressed balls, was he perceivable; nor among the walkers, the horsemen, or the curricle-drivers of the morning. His name was not in the pump-room book, and curiosity could do no more. He must be gone from Bath. Yet he had not mentioned that his stay would be so short! This sort of mysteriousness, which is always so becoming in a love interest, threw a fresh grace in Sherlock's imagination around Captain Watson's person and manners, and increased his anxiety to know more of him.

From the Moriartys Sherlock could learn nothing, for they had been only two days in Bath before they met with Mrs. Hudson. It was a subject, however, in which he often indulged with his fair friend, from whom he received every possible encouragement to continue to think of the missing gentleman; and Captain Watson's impression on Sherlock's fancy was not suffered therefore to weaken.

Irene was very sure that the captain must be a charming young man, and was equally sure that he must have been delighted with her dear Sherlock, and would therefore shortly return. She wondered whether "he might have a sister as handsome and charming as himself," and something like a sigh escaped her as she said it. Perhaps Sherlock was wrong in not demanding the cause of that gentle emotion — but he was not experienced enough in the finesse of love, or the duties of friendship, to know when delicate raillery was properly called for, or when a confidence should be forced.

Mrs. Hudson was now quite happy. Her daily expressions were no longer, "I wish we had some acquaintance in Bath!" but rather, "How glad I am we have met with Mrs. Moriarty!" and she was as eager in promoting the intercourse of the two families as her young charge and Irene themselves could be; never satisfied with the day unless she spent the chief of it by the side of Mrs. Moriarty, in what they called conversation, but in which there was scarcely ever any exchange of opinion, and not often any resemblance of subject, for Mrs. Moriarty talked chiefly of her children, and Mrs. Hudson of her gowns.

The progress of the friendship between Sherlock and Irene was as quick as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They called each other by their first names, were always arm in arm when they walked, complimented each other's choice of fashion for the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together.

Yes, novels; for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding — joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own hero, who, if he accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the hero of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it.

Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. There seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.

"I am no novel-reader — I seldom look into novels — Do not imagine that I often read novels — It is really very well for a novel." Such is the common cant.

"And what are you reading, Miss—?"

"Oh! It is only a novel!" replies the young lady, while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame. "It is only Cecilia, or Camilla, or Belinda"; or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.

…

 **End Note:** Simply replace the word "novels" with the word "fanfic" and it becomes strikingly clear that Jane Austen was one of us.

You may have noticed that I've changed the rating on this story; it will be a long, slow burn, but eventually Sherlock and John will be engaging in some activities that Jane Austen would never have dared write about.

If you haven't yet discovered my other fusion of Jane Austen and Sherlock, you might want to check it out. _Not Entirely Clueless_ is based on _Emma_ , with some significant additions. Here are the first two lines:

Sherlock Holmes, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and a gay disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; yet he had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to interest or intrigue him. And then the murders began.

Double your pleasure — double your fun — read this story on Sundays, and that one for a mid-week fix on Wednesdays. And if you'd like to double my pleasure and double my fun, please write me a review. :)


	6. Chapter 6

The following conversation, which took place between Sherlock and Irene in the pump-room one morning, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is given as a specimen of their very warm attachment, and of the delicacy, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste which marked the reasonableness of that attachment.

They met by appointment; and as Irene had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!"

"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?"

"Oh! These ten ages at least. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. My dearest Sherlock, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with _Udolpho_?"

"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am at the part with the black veil."

"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?"

"Oh! Yes, quite! What can it be? But do not tell me — I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world."

"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished _Udolpho_ , I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."

"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"

"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. _Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine,_ and _Horrid Mysteries_. Those will last us some time."

"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all deliciously horrid?"

"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Hooper, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Hooper, you would be delighted with her. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it."

"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?"

"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Moran at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Hooper to be as beautiful as an angel. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of young man to be a great favourite with everyone."

"Oh, dear!" cried Sherlock, colouring. "How can you say so?"

"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Hooper wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly — I am sure he is in love with you."

Sherlock blushed, and disclaimed again.

Irene laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you" — speaking more seriously — "your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings."

"But you should not try to persuade me that I think so very much about Captain Watson, for perhaps I may never see him again."

"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!"

"No, indeed, I should not. I do not pretend to say that I was not very much pleased with him; but while I have _Udolpho_ to read, I feel as if nobody could make me miserable. Oh! The dreadful black veil! My dear Irene, I am sure there must be Laurentina's skeleton behind it."

"It is so odd to me, that you should never have read _Udolpho_ before; but I suppose Mrs. Holmes objects to novels."

"No, she does not. She very often reads _Sir Charles Grandison_ herself; but new books do not fall in our way."

" _Sir Charles Grandison!_ That is an amazingly horrid book, is it not? I remember Miss Hooper could not get through the first volume."

"It is not like _Udolpho_ at all; but yet I think it is very entertaining."

"Do you indeed! You surprise me; I thought it had not been readable. By the by, though I have thought of it a hundred times, I have always forgot to ask you — what is your favourite complexion in a man. Do you like them best dark or fair?"

"I hardly know. Something between both, I think. Fair, but not too fair, with hair neither pale nor dark — a light brown, I suppose."

"I see. And what of figure and bearing?"

"I never much thought about it. Perhaps a bit on the shorter side, strong and compact, with a military bearing."

"Very well, Sherlock. That is exactly he. I have not forgot your description of Captain Watson."

Sherlock felt himself flush with a mixture of pleasure at the thought of Captain Watson and embarrassment at having been so transparent.

"Well, my taste is different," said Irene. "I prefer ladies, as you must know. But do not distress me. I believe I have said too much. Let us drop the subject."

Sherlock, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested him at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton, when his friend prevented him, by saying, "For heaven's sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young ladies who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."

Away they walked to the book; and while Irene examined the names, it was Sherlock's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young ladies.

"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up."

In a few moments, Sherlock, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the ladies had just left the pump-room.

"And which way are they gone?" said Irene, turning hastily round. "One was a very beautiful young lady."

"They went towards the church-yard."

"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it."

Sherlock readily agreed. "Only," he added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young ladies."

"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat."

"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all."

"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating them with such respect. That is the way to spoil them."

Sherlock had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Moriarty, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young ladies.


End file.
